Alone Together
by cheride
Summary: Mark and the Judge deal with the fallout from an unexpected argument.


_Alone Together- cheride_

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle & McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

_Rating: G_

Mark McCormick sat at a small table in a dark corner, hiding from the world. When he had first come to the bar several hours ago, he had thought a stiff drink and a little mindless chatter with some blonde beauty would be just what the doctor ordered. But he had quickly discovered that the drink was really all he wanted, so he had excused himself and taken up residence as far away from the crowd as possible. He hadn't even flirted with the cute waitress who had quickly realized that the best approach to this particular customer was to simply reappear at his table every fifteen minutes or so to see if he was ready for another round, bring the drinks when he was, then disappear.

So, there he was, lonely but wanting to be alone, staring sightlessly into his drink, knowing that getting drunk wasn't the answer to his problems, but unable to come up with any better solution.

How had it come to this, anyway? Things had been going pretty well lately, if you could get past the fact that he had been sentenced to a crazy life of crime fighting with a lunatic retired judge.

Still, the old man had turned out to be a much more decent guy than McCormick had ever anticipated. Hardcastle had treated the ex-con in his custody fairly well, given him a nice place to live, and even managed to share a few laughs from time to time.

So what had happened tonight? The dinner hour had been progressing just like normal...which meant a lot of varied conversation peppered with insults flying back and forth. Business as usual. But, somehow, he had obviously said something very wrong. He wasn't certain _what_ that 'something' had been, but the judge had suddenly exploded in a louder than normal voice that criminals who were lucky enough to get a second chance should remember their place before they found themselves back in their _rightful_ place and ended up spending the rest of their life behind bars.

If McCormick had been thinking, he would've realized that silence was the best response to that kind of outburst. But the words had been so unexpected, and had pierced his heart so quickly and deeply, that his own temper had flared instantly. And while many tequila shots with beer chasers had dulled his memory, he was pretty sure he had loudly replied that Hardcastle should quit doing him favors. That Gulls Way really wasn't anything more than a fancy prison, anyway; and that at least in Quentin a guy would know exactly where he stood without any pretense of friendship.

Then, voices still raised, faces red, and neither one of them able to stop themselves, the two men had agreed that it was time to put an end to their rather unorthodox arrangement and get on with their lives.

McCormick had immediately stormed out to the gatehouse and began to pack his belongings, all the while cursing himself and his temper, Hardcastle and _his_ temper, and anything else that had crossed his mind.

But after half an hour of stomping around the gatehouse, he had only managed to gather one small duffel bag full of clothes, and it had hit him suddenly that he didn't want to leave. The thought had dissipated his anger instantly, only to have it immediately replaced with despair and confusion. Why was he _always_ screwing things up? Hell, half the time...like tonight...he never knew what he did wrong, just suddenly found himself on the wrong side of trouble. Now this curse was about to land him right back in San Quentin, and still he wondered: what had he done _this_ time?

Not knowing what else to do, he had left the duffel on the bed and run downstairs and out the door. He jumped into his car and sped into the night, wondering briefly just how long it would take Hardcastle to have him locked up.

As it turned out, he had driven aimlessly for over an hour, and he knew he must have been in this bar for at least four or five. The judge must be losing his touch.

And that's exactly what McCormick thought right up until the minute he saw the pair of uniformed officers come through the door. He saw their eyes sweep the crowd as they headed directly to the bar, and he watched them show a small photo—his mug shot, no doubt—to the bartender. Then his waitress was motioned over to join the conversation. They spoke for a few minutes, then the server made a small gesture toward the corner. McCormick stiffened as he saw the officers look briefly back in his direction. But he watched curiously as they exchanged a few more words with the bar staff then turned and left the building.

What the hell was up with _that_? Maybe they were just gonna wait for him outside, though he knew immediately that didn't make a lot of sense. He might be drunk, but he still understood the police mentality, and he knew that they would never have come in here and alerted him to their presence if they intended to take him by surprise.

So maybe they didn't intend to take him at all? But that made even less sense. He had known he wouldn't be hard to find—his car wasn't exactly inconspicuous, after all. But he had also known there was no point in trying to hide. Hardcastle had made it clear that he was ready for McCormick's parole to come to a screeching halt, and if he had learned anything in his few months at Gulls Way, it was that the judge always got what he wanted. _Unless..._

Maybe the old donkey had realized how wrong he had been. McCormick hadn't really seen that side of Hardcastle before, but he had realized the judge was a basically reasonable guy...even though he would never admit that out loud. Surely even old Hardcase Hardcastle could admit to a mistake every now and then, McCormick thought hopefully. Maybe if he went back to the estate they could talk things out. Clearly, Hardcastle wanted him gone, but maybe he could be convinced otherwise. And even if he couldn't, maybe _gone_ didn't have to mean Quentin. _Maybe..._

McCormick was still pondering the judge's actions—or non-actions—when his server approached the table. "It's almost last call; did you want another drink?"

McCormick examined her closely, not wanting to alarm her in any way, but wanting information. "What did the cops want?" he finally asked.

She took her time choosing an answer. In truth, the conversation with the police officers had seemed a little strange. Now she could see the apprehension in the glazed blue eyes before her. Not the desperate fear of a wanted man, but the quiet anxiety of a lost little boy; scared of being alone, but scared, too, of facing his parents once he's found.

"Apparently," she finally said slowly, "someone was worried about you." She smiled gently. "Now, can I get you one last round?"

McCormick returned the smile, relieved at the assessment. Maybe things would be okay after all. "No, thanks," he answered. "I think I've had enough."

But he sat at the table until the bar closed, just to avoid being completely alone.

* * *

Milton Hardcastle jumped slightly at the sound of the doorbell. Jeez, what was _with_ that kid? In the past few months, McCormick had gotten comfortable enough that he hardly ever knocked any more. And he had never been so formal as to ring the bell. Of course, he himself had never gotten mad enough to throw the young man out, either, so maybe it wasn't so surprising that McCormick wasn't feeling particularly welcome.

The judge crossed the den and went quickly to the entryway, pausing just before he opened the door. It wouldn't do to appear too anxious.

"It's about time you- - -" Hardcastle broke off the grouchy greeting when he saw the man standing on his doorstep.

"Mike! What are you doing here?"

Mike Delaney grinned at the judge. "Nice to see you, too, Milt," the detective answered as he walked into the house.

Hardcastle followed the officer into the den and waved his visitor into a chair. "I wasn't expecting you," he said, as he dropped into the leather armchair.

"You didn't seem too happy when you called about McCormick earlier, so I thought I'd come out and see what was going on." He looked at the jurist expectantly.

"It's nothing," Hardcastle said. "McCormick and I just had a little argument; not a big deal."

"If it's not a big deal, why did you ask me to find him? Is there a problem? I can change the APB to locate and apprehend pretty easily, you know."

Hardcastle shook his head quickly. "No, I don't want you to do that. I'm trying to keep the kid _out_ of jail, not get him put back inside." He paused, then added, "No matter what I said to him."

Delaney examined his friend carefully. A guilty conscience was a new look for Milton C. Hardcastle, and he didn't wear it well. But there seemed to be something deeper there, too. Delaney had grown accustomed to the sorrow in his friend's eyes, but it surprised him to see it so clearly tonight. Hardcastle usually kept it better hidden.

"What did you guys fight about?"

Hardcastle shook his head again, more slowly this time. "I'm not even sure. We were having dinner, just talking like normal. We talked about the next case, and the Dodgers, and the stories on the news. You know: _normal_. Then we were talking about some of the things that needed doing around the house and McCormick started with the griping again. I swear, that kid has more complaints than bees have honey, as my aunts used to say. And, just for a minute, he sounded so much like Tommy used to when I'd give him a list of chores..." Hardcastle trailed off.

Delaney's breath caught suddenly. Hardcastle rarely talked about his deceased son, even to those who had known the younger man. The judge was a private person, and grief was a private thing.

"It would've been his birthday today," Hardcastle continued softly, almost to himself. "He would've been thirty one."

So that explained the eyes, the detective thought. He didn't want to ask any further questions, but he sensed that Hardcastle needed to talk. "What happened, Milt?" he said quietly.

"Nothing really happened," Hardcastle replied hoarsely. "McCormick was just being his usual smart-ass self, whining about the chores. But then...then he said...said... '_c'mon, dad, give a guy a break_.' Just playing around, you know?" Hardcastle's voice broke. He took a deep breath before continuing. "That's all. He didn't do anything wrong, but I lost it. I was wrapped up in my own memories, and I let something completely harmless explode into disaster. I told him to mind his place, threatened to put him back in prison... it was awful. He was hurt, too, I could tell. But then, when he yelled back, instead of just apologizing right then like I should've, I basically threw him out; told him we were done. Of course, he said that was fine by him; said Gulls Way and San Quentin were just two different kinds of prisons, anyway, and stormed out to the gatehouse. Not too long after that, he left completely. When he didn't come back after a couple of hours, I called you, and here we are."

Delaney looked at his friend sympathetically. "Does McCormick know about Tommy?"

"Nah, not really. I mean, he _knows_ about him, but we've never _talked_ about him. He sure as hell doesn't know about today." He thought for a moment. "You know, he's been curious ever since he found out I had a son. But he's never pried, even when I could tell he had questions. The kid knows how to be respectful when it matters. It's the damnedest thing."

Delaney smiled slightly. "I bet he probably knows how to forgive and forget, too," he suggested.

"Maybe," Hardcastle replied with a shrug, "but you didn't see his face. I don't know what I was thinking, Mike, honestly. He's not a bad kid, you know? I'd hate to see him do something stupid because of all this. That's why I want you to find him, so at least I'll know he's okay."

"We could still pick him up," the detective offered. "Bring him back here?"

Hardcastle shook his head. "Tempting...but no. If he comes back, I want it to be because he wants to come back. If he _doesn't_..." He hesitated. "Well, I'm not sure what I'd do then, so let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"I've been a terrible host," Hardcastle said suddenly. "You want something to drink?"

Delaney smiled at the sudden change in conversation. Typical Hardcastle. "I wouldn't mind a cold beer, if you have one."

"You bet," Hardcastle said, rising from his chair.

He returned moments later with two beers, popcorn, and pretzels. "Maybe we can find the Duke on TV," he grinned.

And just like that, the friends put aside the conversation of lost sons and missing ex-convicts and flipped on the television. They couldn't find John Wayne, so they settled for Audie Murphy as they slipped into a familiar routine of idle conversation and comfortable silence. Delaney understood the way Hardcastle dealt with his feelings; but the detective also understood that Mark McCormick wouldn't leave the judge's thoughts until the ex-con was safely back home where he belonged, and he made a quick wish that it wouldn't take long.

And so they had watched the movie, and Hardcastle was flipping through channels for another film when the phone rang. The judge rose quickly to cross the room to the desk. "Hardcastle," he said hopefully into the receiver, then held it out to Delaney. "It's for you."

The detective spoke quickly and quietly into the phone, then replaced it on the cradle. He turned to find Hardcastle staring at him expectantly, a hint of fear in his eyes.

"He's fine, Milt," Delaney offered immediate reassurance. "He didn't even go far. He's sitting in a bar down in Santa Monica getting plastered."

The relief on Hardcastle's features wasn't mirrored in his words. "Well, that's not the most productive thing I've ever heard of," he grumbled. His tone softened slightly. "But at least he's not out stealing cars or something, just to spite me."

Delaney laughed. "You said yourself, Milt, he's a good kid." He glanced at his watch. "I should probably go. It's late."

Hardcastle followed him toward the door. "Thanks for your help, Mike; I appreciate it. And I appreciate you coming by, too."

"Not a problem. Besides, it's not every day I get to watch old westerns with the original Lone Ranger, you know."

Hardcastle laughed as he closed the door behind his friend, then returned to the den. He settled back into his favorite chair, but he'd lost interest in the television. He punched the power button and enjoyed the sudden silence.

But as he sat in the quiet room, his guilt returned full force. The things he said to McCormick had been cruel and uncalled for. And though McCormick had quickly learned to take the Hardcastle bluntness in stride, something about tonight had been different. Really, Hardcastle admitted to himself, the only thing that had been different was the intensity with which he had lashed out; his own pain had made his words more hurtful than he ever intended. It wasn't McCormick's fault Tommy had died, and it wasn't like he'd been purposefully dredging up painful memories. McCormick was just being McCormick. Hardcastle shook his head sadly. No, as much as he hated to admit it, this was _his_ fault. Oh, he could certainly wish the kid hadn't reacted like such a hothead, but he couldn't really blame him that he had.

He thought briefly that he should just go get McCormick himself. It seemed unlikely that the kid was in any shape to drive. Besides, they should probably talk. But all the same reasons that had prevented him from having the police simply pick the kid up earlier now kept him glued to his own seat. No matter what had been said, he didn't want McCormick here as a prisoner.

And so he sat, alone and unmoving, until he heard the car in the drive outside. He moved quickly to the window and was relieved to see McCormick crawling out of the backseat of a cab. Hardcastle smiled slightly as he watched the young man stumble off toward the gatehouse, then switched off the downstairs lights. There would be time enough tomorrow for conversation.

He started slowly up the stairs to his bedroom, still feeling the weight of the evening—and old memories—in his heart. God, sometimes he hated being alone.

* * *

McCormick paused on the back steps, and leaned against the wall. His head was pounding, and he remembered now why he didn't usually drink much. This day was going to be difficult to get through, and that wasn't even considering the conversation with Hardcastle that loomed in his immediate future.

He had been surprised to find sunlight streaming through his window when he had blearily opened his eyes an hour earlier. He had fully expected Hardcastle to come storming up the gatehouse stairs at some ungodly hour of the morning to carry out the threat of renewed incarceration, but nothing had wakened him until his bladder could no longer be ignored. So he had gulped down some aspirin and taken a long shower, hoping to find the energy to face the day. And some answers about what was going to happen next would've been appreciated, too. But neither the energy nor the answers were forthcoming, so he had dressed in the most comfortable clothes he could find and then walked slowly toward the main house, his heart growing heavier with each step. Now, as he took a moment to prepare himself to face Hardcastle, he said a silent prayer that—no matter what—there wouldn't be much yelling.

Actually, he had hoped to find the judge sitting by the pool, but he hadn't been that lucky. He had thought that the patio would be closer to neutral territory, but now he was gonna have to go into the house. God knew what kind of reception he'd get there, but he knew he couldn't avoid it forever.

He gave a quick knock—more to give Hardcastle a chance to tell him to go away than because he expected to be invited in—then stepped into the kitchen.

The judge looked up from the skillet of freshly cracked eggs to find McCormick leaning against the door, apparently unwilling to risk venturing any further inside. Couldn't really blame him for that.

"I'm sorry about last night, kiddo," Hardcastle said simply.

"Me, too," McCormick replied, still not moving. After a moment, he spoke again into the uncomfortable silence. "Thanks for not having me arrested." He had intended that to be a joke, but it sure didn't come out that way.

"Thanks for coming back," Hardcastle answered, equally serious. "Though I'm not sure I would've blamed you if you hadn't."

McCormick shook his head. "I'm not that easy to get rid of. But..." He paused, and looked away, uncertain.

"But what?" Hardcastle prodded gently.

"Could you at least tell me what I did wrong?" McCormick asked, staring at his feet. He raised his eyes to meet Hardcastle's and continued softly, "Cuz I sure wouldn't do it again."

Hardcastle's heart melted. How could he have treated this kid so badly? "You didn't do anything, Mark. I could try and explain, but I don't think I'd do a very good job. And besides, there sure as hell isn't an excuse."

He could still see the lingering fear in McCormick's eyes. "Do you trust me, kiddo?"

The simple question surprised McCormick, but his answer—almost as surprising—came without hesitation. "Of course."

"Then trust me when I say it wasn't your fault. You didn't cause what happened, okay?"

The young man smiled slightly, reassured. "Okay." It wasn't his fault this time, and Hardcastle really was decent enough to admit it. Wonders never ceased.

He moved across to the counter, not because he was hungry, but because he wanted to get things back to normal. Peering into the skillet, he asked, "Got anything to go with those eggs?"

Hardcastle grinned, understanding McCormick's intention and willing to do his part. "We will as soon as you make the toast and pour the juice."

"Deal," McCormick agreed easily, moving the sliced bread to the toaster. "Then after breakfast, maybe you can take me to pick up my car?"

"Okay." Hardcastle paused, examining the young man more closely. "But when we get back, maybe you should get a bit more rest," he suggested.

McCormick grinned his gratitude. He figured that was Hardcastle's guilt talking, not any true sympathy for his condition, but he would take what he could get. "I might just take you up on that," he answered.

Breakfast was prepared quickly with their tag-team effort. Then Hardcastle scooped up the two plates filled with scrambled eggs and toast, McCormick grabbed the cutlery and tall glasses of juice, and they walked out into the bright morning sunshine.

Together.


End file.
